A Tale of Many Mishappen Mornings

[Chocolate Radio]

Under the faint glimmers of the morning's playful sunbeams, a hand composed of spindly pale fingers crested the berm of a ditch bordering the southern pass up to Mirakus Post. With a grunt of effort, a tangled bundle of rags, limbs, mud spatters, and loose blades of grass made sticky by dew soon followed the hand and settled itself in what could only be described as a sitting position. The clump of displaced earth, seeming to hide some kind of pained creature within, remained motionless for quite the time, emitting only a drawn-out "Ugh," sound every once in a while to compete with the orchestra of recently-woken songbirds and the far-off ringing of training swords at the Red Blades guild hall.

Having watched over the scene for a short while, an equally-ragged but immaculately clean creature brought itself down from an overhanging tree limb in a flutter of batwings. Its tiny bulb of a form, balanced nimbly on too-skinny legs, took a few quick hops and settled beside what now came to appear as a hunched-over elf.

"Iz de New Mazter awake now?"

The piping voice of the small creature spurred a bobbing gesture from the larger being's hooded head, but no actual reply came. After a brief pause, the smaller rag-clump spoke up again.

"Youz waz zouting up a ztorm, zouting up at de zky about brewz, hopz, black gemz, and blacker magicz. Den you puked in dat bush right dere, crawled over here, zouted zomething about being zorry about some leaf-earz, and fell into ze ditch."

Under the barrage of high-pitched tones, the larger figure peeked out from under its hood for just long enough to reply, retreating soon after into the dark sanctuary of its sunlight-free hood.

"Piking super. Now fly off and fetch me a couple of eggs from those chipper-sounding bastards."

The homunculus regarded the elf for a few more seconds with its black-button eyes before vanishing amidst the leaves of nearby trees and panicked notes of interrupted birdsong.

Much later on, with many a tiny empty eggshell underfoot and the air still tingling from carelessly-aimed cleaning cantrips, a lanky elf plucked free the last bit of foliage still stuck to his cloak before starting to amble down Viridale's east approach.

[Chocolate Radio]

"Eh'kl'pf, y'klu'uyed'yeklu'ud!"

The wagon's creaking wheels drew to a halt in response to the bestial scream that erupted from the thick foliage to its right. The trader leading the produce-laden construct just barely managed to keep the mule from panicking as a hyena-headed humanoid burst fourth from the bushes over the crest of a hill. With reeds tucked into its ringmail and a spiked maul cutting circles into the air above it, the creature took a headlong charge towards those caught on the beaten forest path. The merchant paused only briefly to snag his wisp of a child up from the driver's seat before bolting in the opposite direction. This only bolstered the gnoll's stride, and with a guttural screech the creature's clawed feet cut the distance between them in the blink of an eye.

A small distance away, a small puff of black smoke was the only sign that a veil of illusion had been broken. A figure concealed behind a gray patchwork cloak lazily raised his left index finger and directed it a the charging breast.

"Bang."

As its bludgeon swung down in an arc that would have reduced the human's spine to an irreparable mush of bone and tissue, its holder slumped down to the grass like a marionette whose strings had suddenly been cut. The flash of violet light which had flooded the surroundings was gone as swiftly as it came, and only the sluggish-rising steam from the body of the beast and the caped figure's fingertip served as a reminder of the spellwork that took place.

With confusion etched into their eyes, the trader and his daughter gazed to the pole of a man who had suddenly arrived. In return, a brief two-finger salute off the hem of his hood and another hiss of black vapors quickly erased the being from sight. Only a wilted patch of plantlife remained where he had once stood.


...A few moments prior...


With two sharp ears slipping from the slits in the sides of his hood, a scarecrow of a rag-wrapped man sat on a protruding root, cloaked by the everpresent shadow of the Veridale's seamless canopy. Across one knee, a roll of vellum lay unfurled. One the tip of the other, an inkvial sat balanced in a precarious position. The scratching of the man's quill stopped as a tiny figure of wings, stitches, and beady eyes hopped from an overhanging branch and landed on his shoulder.

"Da zearch of da area haz been done, New Mazter."

"And?"

"Zneaky-zneaky. A doghead hidez, while a farmer comez. A few hillz to the eazt, diz takez place."

"One moment."

With a sigh, the elven man finished the last few lines of his missive. Taking his time, with a notable lack of hand-eye coordination, the vial is plugged, the vellum is rolled, and a beaten tin flask is pulled free from his side to pour a foul-smelling liquid down his throat.

"Ragboy?"

"I would like it very, very much if da New Mazter uzes da zame name as da Old Master..."

"Wouldn't count on it. Take this scroll and fly it over to the Hands guild hall. Toss it to the most fancily-robed fellow with the shiniest signet and the most elaborate staff. I'm sure he can take it from there."

A brief pause then took place between the elf and the homunculus.

"Az you wishez, New Master."

[Chocolate Radio]

((OoC Featuring both of my characters, as they will otherwise not get the pleasure of each others' company in game, and the cast of the "Average Pioneer's Way Bandit Spawn" performing troupe.))

The elf's long, loping stride, augmented with the aid of transmutative spells and enchanted boots, bore him swiftly down the Pioneer's Way road. With the obfuscation charm he had spun around himself, he now seemed to be nothing more than a wayward dervish that made its way down the trail with great speed and strange persistence. With his patchwork cloak rippling unseen behind him and the wind batting at the hem which wrapped around the lower portion of his face, he could not help but grin and enjoy the brief bit of exercise on the way to run an errand at the Gate.

Nearing a turn in the road, he ran off to the side in order to take the common shortcut he preferred. However, as he reached the crest of the hill, he experienced a sudden change in direction as his shin impacted with something low to the ground. The formerly invisible elf, having lost concentration on the veil, was taken on a brief tour of the air as his great speed ended flipping him head over heel. He saw many incredible sights, such as the bright midday sun above, the lush grass below, and the bristling spines of a nearby bush a second later. The bothersome prickling sensation of the thousand sharp thorns signified that the trip was finally over.

Wincing, he pulled himself free from the shrub, his already shabby clothes sporting a few new tears as a souvenir. Freeing a twig from where it had lodged under his hood, the man took a quick survey of the area to try and find the cause for his most recent introduction to flight. What he saw was a tiny female figure of wild elf heritage, her body hunched low to the ground in a stealthy stance while two daggers were clenched tightly in her grip. An assortment of mostly-black hides armored her frame, covered with innumerable sheathes for throwing blades. A tangle of black hair served as a crown for an expression of unparalleled annoyance.

"Ru dr' r'mm un' ouu?" she spat out at him.

The mage paused, quirking a brow. "Why that language, of all choices?"

"O 'zuo dr' muug u b'ubm'k vu'k uk dr'o kdnukkm' du ut'nkdnut od."

"Fair enough. What in the name of the countless Abysses are you doing slinking around here, anyways?"

The wild elf pointed one of her daggers off into the trees by the road from the direction the mage had run. After a moment of careful looking, he began to make out a small group of men a few hundred meters away. They had weathered leather tunics which blended in with the surrounding foliage, and each seemed to be armed with a small assortment of roughly fashioned weapons.

"Highwaymen?"

"Sun'dru' mog'mo. O 'uk rubok du kru' dr's dr'on u' got'ok, p'vun' ouu kru't ub." The statement was followed by a quick twirl of the partnered knives.

"I remember tangling with a group or two along this road, as long ago as that seems now. Want any help?"

She rolled her eyes. "Gug ouunk'mv uud."

The smaller elf turned back to study the bandit position once again, but when she glanced back to gauge the readiness of her newly-found companion, it seemed as if he had vanished. With a bit of a shrug, she resumed her approach of the target, breaking into a silent jog when the terrain would shield her from sight and staying low in the grass when it would not. Behind her, the thump of plated boots and another set of footprints followed. Mere paces from the brigands, she dropped into a combat-crawl, slowly moving up to the unsuspecting men before breaking into a charge with a scream of "Krug krug krug!", both daggers pointed forward.

The bandits scrambled to ready their weapon, their card game suddenly interrupted. As one managed to ready his sword just before the tiny black blur was upon him, a cacophonous howl like a dozen windstorms blasted the area, followed by an ear-splitting wail. The air quivered with the sudden blast of necromantic energies, numbing the flesh of those not directly targeted by their effects, and stealing the life right out of their intended marks. With a swath of withered brush now around her and instantly-dried leaves falling from the trees above, the wild elf shot back the now-visible mage the smoldering glare of pure contempt.

"Ouu'n' u vu."

"Me? No fun? Personally, I consider myself on par with a barrel full of insane undead monkeys. In any case, my suspicions were confirmed that the look on your face was worth the rather costly spell components."

One of the fingers on her dagger-wielding hands left the grip of the weapon to briefly flash him a gesture which demonstrated her opinion of that. She turned to dash back to the main road and leave the spellslinger by the spread of corpses and despoiled nature. With a light chuckle, he once again wrapped himself in arcane illusions and celerity, vanishing in a quick blot of black smoke.

After a few minutes, a single carrion crow swooped in from the sky to take a closer look. It approached one of the bodies with a series of cautious hops, and gave the flesh of the cheek a light peck. Realizing that the taste of necromancy-blasted flesh wasn't something to be found in its top-ten list, it flew off in a few beats of its wings, leaving behind four untouched bodies sprawled in the grass.

The leader of the band, a great bearded man, quick to grin and known for his rambunctious tales, was well liked by his former compatriots. He now lay face-down in the mud, his buckler at his feet and his shortsword still only half-removed from its scabbard.

The second was a young man, barely in his twenties, who was involved in a secret romance with a farmer's daughter in the farmlands to the west (at much to her parents' discontent). In a few years, there will be another fatherless kid running and playing in the brook by the Second Wind inn. What could have at one point been his dad now lay spread-eagle in the dry grass, not a single mark on his leather vest and a battered sword beside him.

The older of the two bandit archers, a graying pole of a man, had left his daughters in charge of their household in Neverwinter. He had wanted to seek his fortunes on the road, but his moneypouch ran dry before he could find them. With one last score, he figured he could have purchased passage on a boat back to his family and restarted his abandoned career as a forester. His bow had broken under his weight when he fell down on it, but the two portions still propped his body into a morbid hump.

The younger bowman had once been an orphan left behind after a trader had refused to pay a bandit toll and drew his blade instead. Having refused to kill the youngling along with the fool, another bandit group took him in. This was the first time he was permitted to leave his chores back at camp and help out. He had taken a liking to woodworking, and it showed. With no warrior's reflexes to respond to the ambush, one dead hand clutched a whittling knife, and the other, an unfinished figurine of a swan.

As for the elves, both went on to have an alright sort of day, each in their own respective manner. In fact, by next morning, the whole experience had been wiped free from their thoughts.

Adventurers. Homicidal bastards, the lot of 'em.